


Taken By the Collar III

by Thimblerig



Series: The Lion and the Serpent [25]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Dialogue Heavy, Dubious Water Safety, Gen, dashing rescues, secrets and lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8715529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: “Why, then?” De Medina dropped the towel into his lap and looked up, his short, damp hair giving him an oddly startled look.
 Aramis shrugged, leaning back in his chair.





	1. Evening

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing Aramis post recent-traumatic-injury a lot lately, so I thought I'd flash back to when he was feeling a bit more himself. Er, as it were.

In a narrow street in Madrid was a row of houses, high and narrow and pretty, and somewhere in the middle, not the prettiest, or the tallest, or the skinniest, was one more building, distinguished only by the Herma doorpost and two trails of water leading up the steps.

A maid, busy as a brown bee, splashed over the steps with a bucket of soapy water muttering dire imprecations at the mess, the inconvenient hour, and the character of the two hooded men trailing the water. One of them turned his shadowed head before passing through the blue doorway and she squeaked in mortification, and set to with a bristled scrub brush. In the velvet indigo shadows and dark amber of the setting sun an ox cart pulled away, its driver shuffling a tarpaulin back over the barrels of fish in his cart.

Inside, the taller of the two men ushered the shorter briskly up the stairs with a light hand between his shoulder blades - up the wooden steps to a high room, delicately furnished, with bed, armoire, and writing desk all fashioned in the same style, and many clothes and papers strewn about.     

“My house is your house,” said Aramis merrily, shaking off his hood and tugging the other's away. On the floor below a door slammed hard enough that the walls of the little room trembled. Aramis winced. “At least for tonight,” he amended. His temporary guest, Jeromin de Medina d’Austria, late of the Spanish army, sagged onto the bed and looked at Aramis speakingly. “I have friends outside the city,” he said, quite low, “if I can reach them.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Aramis, smiling. “We might disguise you as, say, a Morisco servant, but I doubt it would work in the long term,” he said, eying de Medina’s blond hair and sharp blue eyes. “Ah!” he said suddenly and, plucking a lock pick from his hair, set to work at the heavy steel cuffs around de Medina’s wrists.

“‘Under this canvas, O prince…’” de Medina quoted softly.

Aramis flashed a quick smile. “You have a good memory for dialogue.” De Medina’s hands were very cold, from more, perhaps, than the dousing. “Is this your first betrayal?” he asked quietly.

De Medina’s lips were bloodless. “The first from one I loved, yes.”

Aramis was silent, then said, “The spikes of it become more bearable in time, I'm told. Easier to carry, perhaps. Although I suspect forgetfulness is kinder.” One cuff released its prisoner, then the other. “We are blessed with a miracle.” He rose lightly to his feet and opened an armoire, pulling out a plain muslin shirt with a modestly ruffled collar, and loose linen drawers. He eyed his guest up and down critically, then disappeared outside, coming back with a can of steaming water, a soft towel, and a sober blue suit closer to de Medina’s size, though the padded doublet was a little narrow at the shoulders, a little full in the chest; he disappeared again for half a candle mark.

When he returned, de Medina was dressed well enough, if still a little damp around the edges, and Aramis was himself mostly dry and decent, wet curls sticking to his ears. He had a decanter of spiced wine steaming on a tray with a pair of cut crystal glasses, which he placed carefully on the little desk.

“It is a hippocras,” he said, “I make them for the maid when she is out-of-sorts.”

“It is very good,” said de Medina, sipping from a glass.

“I've had a lot of practice,” said Aramis with a self-deprecating smile. “This was a freebie,” he added carefully, watching de Medina rub the towel again through his hair. “My... assistance to you today. I have no expectations of repayment, either in cash or in kind.”

“Why, then?” De Medina dropped the towel into his lap and looked up, his short, damp hair giving him an oddly startled look.

Aramis shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “You didn't exactly do me a good turn when I was your captive but it wasn't a bad one either,” he said, holding up a finger, “and I respect courtesy.” He held up another, “Sowing mischief is its own reward and, truth be told, my partner enjoys displays of dominance to a degree some would call excessive.” With his third finger he said, “I have a distaste for imprisonment,” and with his fourth added, grinning, “jumping three stories into the river was the most fun I've had all week.” He looked at his hand then opened his thumb, smiling with his eyes. “And you asked for my help. Why did you do that?”

The corner of de Medina’s mouth twitched. “Desperation. I learned something I should not have, and was about to be vanished before I could speak of it. And there you were, just passing by in the court of the King of Spain.”

“Well,” said Aramis, smiling, “I do have the devil's luck.” He sipped more heated wine and, with his lips still red with it, asked, “will you speak of what you learned?”

“Perhaps, but not tonight.” Aramis inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“What are you  _ doing  _ here?” de Medina asked.

Aramis put his hand over his heart. “Can a man not seek to better himself in a humble trade?”

“Aramis the  _ barber.” _

“Well,” said Aramis modestly, “I do have a talent for bloodletting.”

De Medina frowned at him. “Your accent is almost of Seville but… you work for the French,” he finished.

“Do I…?” Aramis’ voice was silky. “I think I work for a lot of different people.”

“Would you work for me?”

He cocked his head, considering. “I don't poison wells. I steal children only in very specific circumstances. And if you want a murder you will have to tell me a long and touching story. What did you have in mind?”

“Perhaps later, I...” His mouth was growing pale and bloodless.

“Feel free to kick me out if you need some sleep.”

_ “No.” _ De Medina looked down at where his hands, with the fine bones prized by the nobility, wrapped around the tumbler of hot wine. He firmed his neat mouth, his spine straightened, and the rattled ex-prisoner was gone, replaced by the commander of men.

“I would have you stay and speak a while, if it pleases.”

Aramis looked at him, his eyes smiling. “Well then.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “and she squeaked in mortification” - apparently there were a fair few Irish settling in Spain back in the day, which I assume had something to do with a Catholic refuge or summat. Madrid is one of the few places in continental Europe that Kitty can hold a real conversation with someone who cares. She finds it hella weird.
> 
> (Aramis and Kitty mostly got by in sign language, situational context, and talking over each other. About the only Irish that he picked up were her swears, which are all dainty and spinsterish and earn him some funny looks when he breaks them out around hardened soldiers.)
> 
> Herma - a stylised statue of the Greek god Hermes, patron of liars, travellers, and crooks, guide through the Underworld, and bringer of good luck. They used to be set to guard boundaries and doors. I have no idea if the Renaissance revival of such reached Spain, but please humour me. 
> 
> “Aramis the barber.”/“Your accent is almost of Seville - I should probably apologise for that. At some point.


	2. Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay. I thought, 'I have a lot of content; I just need to wrangle some paragraphs; it'll be fine.' Turned out the wrangling was non-trivial. Anyway! Content! For you!

De Medina rose, walking to the window, and Aramis started suddenly, turning to the spindly legged writing table that had been set where it would have the best light during the day. He covered a stack of pages of mysticism written in a delicate feminine hand by flicking over a fold of blue cloth from the habit of a Franciscan nun. “Best you not see that,” he said apologetically, “it might distress you.”

De Medina raised one eyebrow. _“Aramis.”_

The other shrugged unrepentantly, rather like a cat caught with his nose in a bowl of cream. “Ask me no questions...”

“So you won't tell me how you got away from my troops that day?”

“I hid in a grave,” Aramis said dismissively. “No-one suspects a dead man; it worked well enough.”

“Brave.”

Aramis shrugged again. “Pragmatic. I was days getting the lime dust out of my hair; I quite looked like a ghost and my partner laughed for a _week.”_ His mouth sagged. “My dignity: quite dead.”

“I am sorry.”

“What for? You were doing your duty. And the nightmares went away soon enough. It doesn't signify.”

De Medina’s eyes crinkled around the edges.

Aramis looked up. “It is still campaign season...” he said cautiously.

De Medina blew air through his lips. “I'd been removed from command. A few too many defeats in the field.”

“I am sorry.”

“Tchah. You think _you_ are the only _agent provocateur_ I've dealt with in my career?” He sighed. “The tenor of the army hasn't been good since General Alaman was forced out. Too many political appointments and untried young grandees trying to run troops.” He ran a hand through his short hair, looking rather like a duckling, and shook his head ruefully. “I should not blame the world for my own failures.”

“You miss General Alaman?”

“Tariq was a good man.” De Medina looked away. Very low he said, “I'm supposed to care what day his _grandfather_ took Sabbath?”

Aramis said nothing.

De Medina shook himself, and eyed Aramis. “If you ever come across his daughter, Senorita Samara, in your travels...”

“I can make sure she's well. Is that your job?”

De Medina shook his head. “A favour asked, only.”

Aramis opened his hand. “If I see her, it is done.”

De Medina looked around the little room - the desk with its obscured writings, a prie-dieu against the wall, the armoire full of eccentric clothing, a long gun propped in the corner and a brace of pistols hanging from a bedpost. “Do you like this? This life? The... trickery of it?”

“It has its compensations. It is what I know. Do you regret yours? The... death that follows you?”

“I am a soldier,” said de Medina, looking through the slats of the window blind into the quiet street. “It is my trade.”

“And I am a killer,” replied Aramis, “I am a liar. I am a thief.” He opened his hand. “Or I am a man, who kills, lies, steals when the circumstances seem fit for it.” He curved his fingers around the glass and held it up, so that the light of the candles flickered through the wine. “And when the circumstances are not fit...” he shrugged, smiled, and drained the glass, wiping the wine off his lips.

“The freedom of a wild thing.”

“Perhaps. The freedom to help a good man, if I choose.”

“You take risks.”

Aramis smiled, looking up at de Medina.

“You are _terrifyingly_ soft-hearted,” de Medina said.

“Have I not told you I am a killer?” Aramis shook his head ruefully, and his long hair hissed as it moved over his ears and collar. “I have been informed - repeatedly - that compassion is a weakness that shall lead to my ignominious death some day.”

“And what do you think of that?” De Medina’s blue eyes were grave.

“I think that mercy is a terrible thing to lose. _Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not charity..._ ”

“I can see why she loves you,” de Medina said softly.

Aramis spluttered. “Such a word would never pass my partner’s lips,” he said. “She's rather like a sister, I suppose: a fierce, flighty falcon of a sister. But never use the ‘l’ word.”

De Medina drew breath then released it. He shook his head quizzically.

“Do you regret becoming a soldier, then?”

“There are few trades open to a man in my position,” said de Medina, “and I have no vocation for the church. So I went to the army. That's all.”

“Poor little bastard,” said Aramis softly.

“I know my father's name,” answered de Medina, and Aramis raised his empty glass in silent salute.

“My mother called me Jeromin,” he said, tugging the tumbler from Aramis’ hand, pouring more wine, and returning it.

Up from the street a minor hullaballoo rose up: the tramping of pike men, raised voices from outraged householders, banging on doors. 

They stilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, since it looks like I won't be devoting a story to it specifically, the ‘half-a-nun’ bit.
> 
> The real King Phillip had a long standing friendship with a Franciscan nun, Mary of Jesus of Ágreda. She wrote letters; she co-located to the New World; she penned mystic treatises; she advised the king. The real Mary was a bit later than my time-period which is good because she almost certainly wasn't a pair of French espionage agents. (Aramis was on letter writing and mysticism duty, when he wasn't cutting hair. He thought Phillip was rather sweet.)
> 
> “I'm supposed to care what day [Tariq’s] grandfather took Sabbath?” - Oof, so the real life Expulsion of the Moors, which I'm assuming is where Tariq and Samara’s plot came from, happened around 1610, an attempt to ‘cleanse’ the country of the (officially Christian) descendants of the old Muslim invaders, on the grounds that people who converted out of fear or for financial inducements might not fully mean it and Therefore Be Up To No Good. (For the sake of this story, I'm assuming part of Tariq’s fall was also court intrigue.) It's a loaded topic and I'm not qualified on the niceties, so this is as far as I'm digging into it. 
> 
> Jeromin isn't exactly based on Don John of Austria, but I raided some details from his life, including his personal name and the crack about disguising himself as a Morisco servant - an apocryphal anecdote for which I've lost my reference, alas. Here's a quick look at not!Jeromin, if you're interested. http://madmonarchist.blogspot.co.nz/2011/05/royal-profile-don-juan-of-austria.html
> 
> There you go: my bizarre capers are almost historical!


	3. Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. The middle chapter was fighting me hard.

In a swift fluid rush Aramis set his tumbler down and perched himself in the corner of the window, where he could see the goings on at front door but could not himself be seen.  He had the long gun in his arms and without looking held out one hand. Jeromin handed up a candle for him to light the slow burning match of the musket, took it back, and picked up the smaller, neater, less accurate pistols from their harness.

It was a small tableau, two women faced the soldiers on the street, just far enough in front of the door that men in their vantage point had a clear shot.

The smaller woman wrapped her soft blue shawl tighter about herself. The taller, her face hidden by the angle and a lacy veil, swayed piteously. Her hand gestured like the neck of a dying swan, away down the street. She lifted a white hand to her mouth, and swayed again as if about to faint. One young soldier steadied her, his scarlet blush visible from this height. The group of figures paused, held, then the soldiers’ leader gestured them brusquely away. The taller woman watched them go, hands clasped, as did Aramis, still and intent, musket held easily in his arms, until the soldiers in their pouter-pigeon breastplates and tall helmets had gone when sent.

As the taller woman began the turn to return the shelter of her house, Aramis said “No,” and turned Jeromin’s face away with the palm of his hand. He felt an eyelash flutter against the edge of his finger as the older man blinked before dropping his hand. He sought for words. “You are my guest, not hers, and a lady likes her privacy.”

Jeromin nodded slightly. “I shall strive to be a courteous guest.” He shifted his weight and said, “If I may ask, how  _ did  _ you learn the name ‘San Sebastian’?”

“It is an odd story, when I think about it. We found an old Franciscan dying on the road, and took him in to ease his last hours. As luck would have it, he had a Jesuit signet. In his false leg.”

“And you just happened to stumble upon such a man. With a false leg.”

“I told the truth!” said Aramis, scandalised. He raised his eyes upwards. “Why do they never believe me when I tell the truth, O Lord?”

Jeromin hid his mouth with his hand.

Tutting, Aramis swept up a little leather bag and emptied its contents on the writing table, a magpie’s hoard of rings and seals, three battered pennies strung on a child's hair-ribbon, a tiny, ornate golden cross, a silver scallop of a pilgrim's token… He picked through the litter with one finger and picked out the ring in question, handing it to his guest who looked it over with interest.

“He had trouble speaking, the old man, he'd been cut about on the road. And something weighed heavily on his heart… It is hard to say no to a dying man.”

“And what did you learn?”

_ “Nothing. _ Jeromin, it is so frustrating I could cry.”

The door opened.

_ “Herself wanted the robes again and I do not care to know what other blasphemous impieties you have in mind, I am sure I do not.”  _ She glanced at Jeromin as she whisked up the Franciscan nun's habit.  _ “Another stray. Will you keep this one in your pocket for a month like Wilhemina?” _

“Who is Wilhemina?” Jeromin asked gravely.

The maid squeaked, clapped both hands to her mouth, flushed scarlet, and fled.

“A bit of lost baggage,” Aramis said mildly, “long since tidied away.”

“Your maid is from Ireland.”

Something flickered in Aramis’ eyes. “I suppose,” he said indifferently. “Everyone comes from somewhere. One of her many virtues is an inability to comprehend the finer points of any of our dealings.” He met Jeromin’s eyes, face impassive. “Or gossip about them.”

The door opened again and the maid returned with a tray covered in papers. She said to Jeromin earnestly,  _ “He's a good boy, really. Don't eat him.” _

As the door shut behind her, Aramis’ eyes slid to his guest.

“I've no idea what the servant of my host had to say,” said Jeromin blandly. “Even were it courteous for a guest to  _ gossip.” _

Aramis nodded, very slightly, and sat at the writing desk, flexing his long-fingered hands and shuffling papers. He looked Jeromin up-and-down again, dipped a feather pen in ink, and began to write on a page already affixed with a seal. Jeromin watched him, his chin resting on his hand. He muttered something, very softly.

“I am sorry, I haven't the English to follow that.”

_ “Go and catch a falling star, get with child a mandrake root. Tell me where all past years are, or who cleft the devil's foot,” _ translated Jeromin.

“It isn't cleft,” answered Aramis absently, “though rather beset with rheumatism.”

Jeromin’s mouth shut with a click.

“Would you like me to find a fallen star for you?” said Aramis, shaking sand on the shining wet ink. He raised bright black eyes. “I hear they make wonderful swords.”

“That’s not what I want you for.”

Aramis touched his wrist. “Jeromin. You look tired.”

Jeromin ran a hand again through his short hair. “I can't throw you out of your own bed tonight.”

Aramis watched him, eyes dark and very still, as if Jeromin were a rare and precious book he sought to read. He opened his hand. “Well then.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Go and catch a falling star" - John Donne


	4. Early Dawn

He came out of the darkness easily, eyes adjusted to the predawn shadows. His pillow smelled of flowers and gunpowder, a hint of spice and a shade of musk; rubbing sleep from his eyes he rolled onto his side, leaning on an elbow. There was a man silhouetted against the lesser darkness of the window, sitting easily in a chair, watching him silently.

Jeromin sat up, running fingers through sleep-rumpled hair. “Aramis,” he said.

The other stirred. The loose linen of his shirt rustled, slipping off the point of one shoulder, and he struck sparks into a small heap of tinder and lit a stub of candle. He smiled faintly. “Good morning,” he said, his own voice creaky, “you slept well, I trust?”

“Yes,” said Jeromin. There was a jug and washbasin nearby, a cloth. He dressed quickly and found his boots had been cleaned, looked up to see Aramis still watching with a reserved intensity. “I should be gone before the sun rises.”

Aramis nodded slowly and picked up a set of papers from the writing desk. “These would be for you,” he said, standing and passing them to Jeromin. They were a rough sketched map of the city with two hidden exits marked, basic identity papers, a small draft on a minor bank.

“This is too generous.”

Aramis shrugged and smiled. “Kindness is never a waste.” He closed Jeromin’s fingers over the papers.

Jeromin moved past him, to the writing desk, commandeering paper and pen. With a quick flourishing scrawl he detailed a simple list of ships and ports. He scattered sand over it and passed it up. To the question in Aramis’ eyes he said, “It is all I can tell you of San Sebastian, the Blessed Virgin help me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I love my country.”

“I believe you.” Aramis stood silently, balanced and still, then he turned and scooped up a little golden cross from the writing desk, strung on a long chain. He looped it over Jeromin’s head. His eyes crinkled. “Maybe it will keep you safe.” He blinked hard, looking a little lost.

Jeromin gripped his wrist. “I will return it if I can.”

Aramis smiled. “That would be nice.”

Jeromin took his leave quietly, slipping out as the dawn birds cried. The last he saw of Aramis he was frowning over the list as if it held the secret of life itself.


End file.
